


A Lapse in Judgement

by aischrolatry



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alcohol, Denial of Feelings, Explicit Language, F/M, Fenris Might or Might Not Be a Virgin, Hawke is a Pervert, Hawke's Glorious Legs and Fenris' Pretty Mouth, Interruptions and Continuations, Marking, Name-Calling, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rivalmance, Sexual Tension, Some Humor, Vaginal Fingering, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 20:06:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4800563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aischrolatry/pseuds/aischrolatry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Feynriel is rescued from the Fade, there are apologies to be made.</p><p>Isabela shuffles her feet, grumbles about big boats, and buys Hawke pints until they both fall over drunk. Fenris shifts the blame, argues about irresponsibility, and then pushes her up against a wall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lapse in Judgement

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, Fenris, you prickly little shit. So hard to write, but so fun to torture.
> 
> Unbeta’ed, as always.

The last time she was here, the scent of wine permeated the walls and the floor. This time, it’s on his breath, in the red color of his lower lip. _Still drinking straight out of the bottle? Such decorum,_ is what she almost quips, already half-smirking, but then Fenris begins blaming her, and humor is the last thing on her mind.

“You can’t be serious,” she says, because she’s still astonished by the fact that he actually, truly blames her. Everyone else seems to, but Fenris has never, and—Andraste’s ass, it bloody hurts.

“How could I not?” Fenris replies, opening his arms wide. “You—“ he exclaims, then, dropping his hands and closing them. “The thrice-damned Fade, Hawke. Why did you even take me?”

“Why did I—?” she echoes, caught by surprise. There are so many reasons why. Because he’s skilled with a blade and fast on his feet. Because demons are persuasive and she’d thought him incorruptible. Because she’s in love with him and when does she ever get to see him, if not on the field?

Almost four years they’ve know each other, and still he refuses to see her as anything other than a demon vessel. Still refuses to admit mages are people. Four whole years.

“Because Aveline didn’t want to, Carver’s gone, and you said you wouldn’t _mind_ ,” is what she hisses, in the end. The flush on his face, inked by alcohol and irritation, deepens into crimson. Hawke wants to lick it off, to press her hand into his cheek until it whitens around her fingers. She only steels herself and hikes her chin at him. “Rest assured, Fenris,” she barrels on, turning towards the door, “I’ll stop asking for your assistance if I think there’s demons involved.”

Fenris’ gauntlets are cool where they wrap around her wrist. Hawke takes a step back, pulling her arm, but he’s used to waving a giant sword around, and he doesn’t even budge. For a furious second, she considers blasting him with her mind, but then it passes, and she concludes using magic on him would be their friendship’s undoing.

“I did not say that,” he grits out, his breath warm and bitter like the wine he never offers her. He is close enough that she sees every fleck of green in his eyes. “I’d rather be certain you don’t become an – an abomination than to—“

“Maker, Fenris, just shut _up_ ,” Hawke cuts off, and this time, finally manages to steal back her wrist. He stumbles, surprised, and she pushes him, warm palms against his chest. The step back he takes is unsteady, and though it’s clear he’s drunk, Hawke still revels in the fact she’s besting him. “Do you need me to remind you who, exactly, accepted a demon’s gift? Just ‘a little of your time’, _honestly,_ if I’d known you were so easy—“

“ _You_ shut up,” Fenris cuts in, like a petulant child, and kisses her.

“Don’t tell me to shut up,” Hawke wishes she could say, but his tongue is in her mouth and the dusty wall of his bedroom is at her back, and she ends up moaning instead. Fenris places one hand on her waist, another on her thigh, and after that it’s only natural she ends up with her leg curled around his waist. It’s not as pleasant as she’s fantasized – his armor is hard and the weight of her robes don’t allow for much movement – but she groans and shudders anyway, because he kisses better than she thought he would.

Fenris is a biter. He drags his teeth across her lower lip when he parts for air, then lets them close around her ear lobe. Hawke has to remind herself she’s mad at him each time, though it doesn’t work as well as it should when he sucks at the skin of her neck, gauntlets digging into the fabric of her robes.

“Mm,” she lets out, through closed lips, when Fenris’ open mouth connects with the hollow of her neck. The back of her head makes a dull noise when it hits the wall; Hawke barely even notices it.

The hand at the end of her back drops to her ass. The other pulls her robes up to mid-thigh, and even though the spikes in his gloves scratch her skin as they go, Hawke can only shiver and close her hands around his hair. _It’s soft_ , she realizes, and her heart does a little skip – then he cups the flesh of her raised thigh, curses, and pulls back to bite at his glove’s buckles.

“Fenris,” she says, after a beat. Her voice is low and dry and she sounds like she’s been thoroughly well-fucked. His eyes move to her mouth, his own still working at his glove, and Hawke clears her throat. “Fenris,” she repeats, and this time it is firmer.

“What?” he retorts, voice as throaty as hers. His glove drops to the floor and Hawke is certain the pitch of his voice has overridden gravity, because her smalls are damn ready to follow. Her eyes flutter closed, rolling back just a little, and his hand is callused and dry, gliding up her leg. His bare hand; so warm, so strong. She is so, so weak.

“Nothing,” Hawke says, or at least thinks she does. Fenris’ mouth returns to hers, as soft as she always thought it would be. His ungloved hand kneads into the curve of her ass and her hips lurch into his, despite the awkward position.

He groans, then, and pulls her other leg up, pushes her into the wall until there is no longer space between them. She’s certainly glad he’s used to waving around a giant sword around, now, because even as drunk as he is, his arms don’t tremble with the effort of holding her.

“I’ve never been fucked against a wall,” Hawke says, without thinking, and Fenris doesn’t laugh, but the side of his mouth quirks, as he traces her jaw with his teeth. “You think it’ll hold? This mansion is pretty damn old.”

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, biting at her ear again. Hawke flinches in his arms, legs twitching around his waist. She wonders if he knows she could finish from his voice alone. She wonders if she should tell him. “It’s not in my plans to find out. I have neighbors; imagine the rumors.”

Hawke imagines. In clear, obscene detail.

“There’s, uh – there are other ways you could fuck me against a wall,” she whispers, burying her fingers in his hair again. Fenris’ breath stutters as a result, and Hawke’s smalls are going to start dripping if he keeps his mouth this close to her ear. “I could—oh, Maker—I could show you, I’m – I’m not going near that bed, unless you beg.”

“Far too soon for me to beg. Show me, then,” he manages, tightly, and allows her to drop from his lap. Hawke’s boots make a clicking sound when the heel hits the stone floor, but she cannot wonder if she’s broken it – she can only turn around, plant one palm against the cool surface, and lift her skirts with the other.

Fenris’ replying inhale is a long, rapid thing, like someone’s stolen all the air from the room. When she looks over her shoulder, she finds his eyes roaming from her calves to her ass, and his face is _so_ pink she wants to ask a painter to immortalize it. Fenris swallows thickly, bringing a hand to his mouth, but not before she spots the tip of his tongue wetting one corner of his lip, then the other.

“Well? Still too soon for you to beg?” Hawke snipes, changing the weight of her butt from one foot to the other, and Fenris’ eyes follow the shift, hungry and dark. He peels the other glove off, flexes his hand, and then looks as if he doesn’t know what to do with it. She brings her face forward again – it is scalding, and it’s easier to lean her forehead against the cool tiles than to force her neck to the side.

“Legs,” Fenris slurs, probably unaware she can hear him, and his thumb traces the curve of her ass, finishing on the inside of her thigh. His touch is soft, like he’s worried he’ll leave a mark. The side of her hip stings, the scratch still sore, and all Hawke wants is for him to use a stronger grip.

“Yes,” she says, fists closed against the wall, “legs. Most people have them.”

“Most people aren’t you,” Fenris mutters, and sets his other hand on her hip, opens it around the arc and slides it down. Hawke’s heart does another flip, and somehow manages to land on its feet, despite the fact she doesn’t know what to do with that statement.

“Fenris,” she starts, and then gets a little choked up. It either has to do with how she feels about him, or with how his right hand kneads into her ass, Hawke doesn’t know. “You—“

“Should’ve probably locked the door,” Isabela states, leaning against the doorway with crossed arms.

* * *

Hawke ends up drinking herself to death. Varric already knows all about it by the time she gets to the Hanged Man – Isabela has never bothered with discretion – and the shame only fades after she downs five or six pints.

"I'm sorry, sweet thing," Isabela croons, and almost sounds genuinely apologetic despite the depraved grin on her face. "It was never my intention to interrupt."

Hawke thinks about burning her favorite hat; it must show on her face, because Isabela swallows, then laughs awkwardly, and drinks the rest of her swill as she looks away. Varric hasn't stopped laughing yet, the bastard.

"Pardon my latent skepticism," Hawke shoots back, eyes narrowed.

"I would've never taken Fenris for an ass man," Isabela sighs, like she hasn't heard her, and then looks down her shirt. Hawke almost, almost corrects her—it's the legs, the _legs_ —but then realizes she doesn't want her to know. "But I guess it explains a lot. Isn't that right, my pretties?"

She then begins reassuring her breasts with her hands, and the two men sitting at the closest table fail to grab the handles of their mugs. Varric, now a little more composed, finally glances at Hawke.

"So – Broody, huh?" he asks, sounding remarkably like her father, that one time he caught her fooling around with their neighbor's oldest son. Something inside Hawke shrivels at the memory. "And here I was betting on Blondie the whole time."

"Anders? You thought I – _Anders_?" Her voice goes a little high.

"Mm, Anders," Isabela moans, abandoning her chest and closing her eyes. "I bet he's a beast in bed."

"You should go and find out," Hawke replies, bitter, "so I can walk in halfway and make a bloody joke."

"Pff, as if that would stop me."

"She's got you there, Hawke," the dwarf replies, leaning back on his chair. "But – enough. My curiosity is begging to be quelled. Tells us, Lady Amell, what brought this sudden development?"

"Your mother," Hawke hisses, and signals Corff for another pint.

Isabela snorts, and Varric huffs out a laugh: "Charming."

"We were arguing, okay?" She doesn't look away from the beer tap, her face burning from both the embarrassment and the way they're staring at her. "We were arguing, he was drunk, and now he's going to avoid me for a month and pretend nothing happened."

"Yes," Isabela says dejectedly, as if she's the one Fenris let go of so suddenly, as if she's the one who watched him flee into the streets without even looking back, "he tends to do that. It's _such_ a waste – your ass is marvelous."

"She's right," someone shouts drunkenly, from the other corner of the tavern.

"See?" Isabela says, as if that fixes everything, and Hawke groans, burying her face into her arms.

* * *

The first game of Wicked Grace after the Incident is organized by Varric, and Hawke gets rightly suspicious; Isabela is the one who always sends out the invitations (usually because she needs coin). Hawke lingers at home until she's sure she'll be the last one to arrive, and helps Norah with the drinks because she doesn't think she can enter Varric's room alone.

"Finally," Isabela says, looking up from the deck she's shuffling. "We were starting to wonder if you'd come."

'We' refers to Isabela, Varric, Merrill, and Anders, and both disappointment and relief bloom within Hawke's chest. Norah sets the drinks down, offers a softer frown at the silvers Hawke tips her with, and leaves the room. Hawke pulls up the chair next to Merrill, and cracks the knuckles of her hands, downing half her drink with a delighted gasp.

"I was approached by two sad-eyed orphans whose dirty hovels had been overrun with darkspawn," she explains, sighing loftily and then wiping her mouth. "I _simply_ couldn't abandon them."

"You can't keep fighting them alone, Hawke! It's dangerous!" Merrill exclaims, surprised and concerned, and then, at the sight of Hawke's smirk, backtracks: "O-Oh, you're joking—right, of course."

"No darkspawn in Kirkwall, Daisy," Varric says, grinning. The he amends: "At least, not yet."

"We don't need more things to kill," Anders says, frowning. It must be one of his sullen days, because he doesn't bother looking up from his mug. Hawke's chest tightens at the sight, but she doesn't say anything; most of the time, her quips do more harm than good.

"Where's Aveline?" Hawke asks, instead, sipping at her drink. She doesn’t ask about Sebastian – rare are the times he abandons the Chantry, and Hawke doesn’t like dragging him into seedy pubs anyway, considering his past.

"Guard duty," Varric says, taking the deck and making sure all the cards are there.

"More like Donnic duty," Isabela says, and barks out a laugh: “Ha!”

The door opens, and Hawke turns, ready to ask Norah for more ale, but it is Fenris who enters, wiping his wet hands on his slacks. Her mouth goes as dry as her empty mug, and both Isabela and Varric begin analyzing the various items around the room in a way that isn't subtle or amusing in the least.

"Hawke," Fenris says, standing still and blinking. He is sober, tonight, or, at the very least, looks the part. "I thought—I was under the impression you wouldn’t be coming.”

"No," Hawke says stupidly, curbing the urge to tell him she thought the same, "I came."

Isabela immediately chokes on her cheap whiskey, and tries her best to verbalize an innuendo, despite the heavy coughing. Merrill gets up to pat at her back, but Varric gets to her first, mouth twitching. Fenris' cheeks darken, a dangerous, displeased frown in his eyes, but he only straightens his back and stomps over to sit beside her. It is only now that she notices his mug, lying half-empty on the table, mere inches from hers.

"Great," Anders mutters, giving the pirate a wary glance, and then turning accusative eyes towards Fenris. "Now that we’re all here— _finally_ —can we start this already?”

“Maker’s arse, Anders,” retorts Isabela, still a little wheezy. “Can’t a handsome elf take a piss without you complaining about it?”

Anders gives her a glance, his eyes narrowed, but doesn’t reply.

“Gracious as always, I see,” Fenris grunts, and takes the cards Varric slides his way. His ears are pink, the flush vanishing once it reaches his nose, and Hawke bites the inside of her cheek. “Is there something on my face?” he barks, then, rough and something else she can’t pinpoint. Merrill startles like a frightened kitten, and Hawke looks away, clearing her throat.

“No,” Hawke replies, cooling her voice despite the heat in her belly, in her cheeks.

The game starts tensely – with both Anders and Fenris in a foul mood, it is no surprise – but eventually mellows out into another sort of strain. Fenris is as competitive as Isabela, but Hawke feels spiteful, and wants to rob him of all the coin in his pockets. If the only thing inside his pants she can get her hands on is his gold, well, then so be it.

“You’re on a roll, Hawke!” Merrill says, wide-eyed, leaning over the table to watch the discarded cards better. She has long since folded; proficient at old magic she might be, but a Wicked Grace player she is not.

“Yes,” Varric says, his chin on his hand, “she is, isn’t she? Almost like a woman on a mission.”

Hawke ignores them, though she can’t help the smile she directs at Merrill, and, at her side, Fenris curses under his breath, discarding a Knight of Sacrifice.

She doesn’t look at him. Just at his hands, one of them holding his cards and another playing with a copper. He has foregone his gauntlets, tonight, trading them for fingerless leather, and the sight of his fingers almost _hurts_ her. Hawke averts her gaze towards her cards again, crossing her legs; her foot touches at his leg and she can almost convince herself it is by accident. Fenris’ closes his hand around the coin, tight enough to steal the red from his knuckles, and very pointedly doesn’t look at her.

“Speaking of a woman on a mission,” Isabela drawls, getting up from her seat and dusting the behind of her shirt, “I have one of my own to complete. Or _do_ , rather.”

“In the middle of a game?” Hawke says, eyebrows raised. “He must be a really good lay.”

“They definitely are,” Isabela purrs, winking.

Anders snorts acerbically.

"Either that," Varric quips, "or she's losing."

“So I expect you’ll show up in the clinic, tomorrow morning?” the mage shoots, not as bitter as before, and Isabela wiggles her eyebrows at him.

Fenris’ index finger traces the rim of the coin – when did she look away from her game? Damn it –, his thumb fondling the side. Hawke’s cheeks go warm, and she looks at her game again. Really, she does. However hard it is to focus on anything that isn’t the memory of his hands on her ass, she can at least try. The Angels look disapprovingly at her, like they know.

“I’m your best customer, Anders! Don’t give me that look,” she croons, leaning over to pinch at his unshaven cheek.

“I don’t recall ever being paid,” he mutters, through her fingers.

“What’s that? I think I heard someone call for me,” Isabela says, quite suddenly, and leaves the room in a flash, blowing them a kiss over her shoulder. Fenris finally sets down his cards, throwing the coin into the pile. His mouth wrinkles to the side just so as he does it, like he’s displeased, and the flash of white teeth doesn’t undo her, but Varric does.

“Maker’s breath, Hawke,” he says, fondly frustrated, “stop staring at his mouth and _play_ already.”

Her face goes hot. _You nug-fucker_ , she glares at him. _Who are you kidding, you love me_ , he rolls his eyes, shrugging cockily. Between them, Fenris frowns in confusion, then realization, and only then mortification. On the other side of the table, Anders’ expression goes dark, and he sets his cards down like he doesn’t plan on playing any longer.

“Varric, my good, good friend—what could you possible mean by that?” Hawke manages, through grit teeth. Fenris’ face is pink and pinched, his eyes refusing to leave the safety of the cards’ figures. Merrill looks at him with concern, but does nothing apart from fidgeting.

“Oh?” the dwarf replies, trying not to laugh. “I apologize, then; I must’ve been mistaken.”

 _I’m going to hand you over to the Guild in a gift basket,_ Hawke narrows her eyes. _I’ll let you, but only if you put a pretty bow on it_ , Varric winks, and then laughs when she presses the Angel of Death into the pile. The four angels smile down at the rest of the table, and her smile comes easily enough, though all she wants to do is blow a raspberry into Fenris’ face.

“Learning tricks from Isabela, I see,” Anders says unhappily, abandoning his hand like one does a piece of trash. “It was a great game,” he adds, tone flat, “but I’m leaving, now.”

“Duty calls?” Hawke asks gently, as an apology. Fenris is still glaring down at his cards – a shitty hand – and his ears are still flushed; she hates that she keeps noticing.

“No,” Anders bites out, and leaves, closing the door behind him.

“Don’t tell him I said this, but I think he’s mad about losing,” Merrill whispers, her eyes very bright and wide.

“You could say that,” Varric says slowly, and this time looks at Fenris. The flush on his face darkens, and Hawke doesn’t know what to make of that. “Well, well, would you just look at the time! I have an appointment I can’t miss, tomorrow morning, so if you’ll excuse me—“ and Varric makes a shooing gesture with his hands, “get your asses home, children.”

“What, really?” Hawke asks, eyebrow raised.

“Yes,” Varric replies, with the patience of a parent, “really. I still have to walk Daisy home.”

“Oh,” Merrill says, alarmed, “that’s not necessary! Honestly, Varric, I can—“

“I insist, milady,” the dwarf cuts in, closing his eyes and mock-bowing, and it’s not until they reach the door of the tavern that Hawke realizes Fenris and her are going to have to walk home in each other’s company.

* * *

He walks half a step behind her – not enough for her to see his face, but enough for her to feel his presence. Fenris is always warm to the touch, and she wishes she could curl into his lap and press her mouth into his neck like he seemed so fond of doing, back in his room. She buries her chin into her scarf instead, ears burning.

Neither of them speak. Hawke is still incensed by the Fade incident, and Fenris always closes up when something between them is wrong. She wants to force him open, wants to spread her hands across the lines of his ribs and grind her hips into his, until he says her name, until he tells her what is really going through his mind, instead of constantly skewering her with insults and angry words that she knows he regrets later.

“—what happened,” Fenris says, walking at her side, now.

Hawke blinks, reddening, and clears her mind of impure thoughts, focuses on the floor moving beneath their feet.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I said,” he replies, giving her an annoyed look, “do not to expect me to apologize for what happened.”

It feels like a bucketful of icy water.

“Are you _kidding_ me, Fenris?” Hawke hisses, stopping in her tracks to look at him. The urge to throttle him is almost overwhelming, and she has to take a deep breath in order to curb it. “What are you even talking about? Is this about the Fade? Or about how you left me in your bloody bedroom,” she shoves at him, “with my bloody skirts,” another shove, “hiked around my _bloody_ waist?”

One final shove. Fenris flushes red, then, the color obvious even though half of Hightown’s streetlights have been blown out by the winter winds. There is a smidgen of hurt in the green of his eyes, and she almost regrets having blown up at him, but it is soon replaced by irritation.

“That was – a lapse in judgement,” he grits out, shoulders hiked, and Hawke mirrors him, feeling the ache of angry tears behind her nose. She won’t give him the satisfaction. “Both were.”

“Neither of which you’ll apologize for, it seems,” she spits at him, and just – gives up, feeling exhausted. Her body slumps, and she runs her hands across her face. “I’m tired of this bullshit, Fenris. What is it you want?”

His expression tells her he doesn’t know. But his mouth tells her, in exhaustive detail: _you, it’s you,_ and Hawke tenses, ready to push him back, but Fenris slides his hands around her neck and into her hair, kissing her more gently than she ever thought possible, and she melts.

She hates herself for it, but she melts.

“You’re not getting out of this so easily,” she gasps, when he moves to her neck, sucking and biting hard enough that he’ll leave marks. Somehow, they manage to stumble into her front door; the wood is thawing and she thinks she probably just woke up the entire household, but Hawke doesn’t care. “We’re talking about this, later,” she adds, aiming for sternness and striking a whimpering note instead.

“Yes,” Fenris tells her, a husky promise, closing the door behind him with a distracted hand. The other one curls around her hip again, and Hawke only thinks to pull her skirts up before she jumps, legs closing around his waist in a way that has him stifling his moan into the collar of her robe.

Hawke really, _really_ hopes her mother won’t wake up, as Fenris stumbles up the stairs and into her bedroom, kicking the door shut. Her jacket and scarf are thrown somewhere, along with his own, and her bedcovers crinkle beneath her body when he sets her there, hands at either side of her head. She only has half a mind to light the closest candle, waving her fingers in such a hurried way her dressing table could end up half-burnt. Thankfully, the hearth is already lit; she doesn’t think she could do it without peeling herself from him, and that’s not going to happen. Not until she’s had him, at least.

“Andraste’s tits,” Hawke says, when Fenris grinds against her, his teeth sharp at her ear. “Get’em—ger’off,” she manages, between stuttering breaths, and he leans back, eyes wide. “The armor, I meant the armor,” she is quick to correct, bringing him close again, her heels digging at the end of his back. “Can’t even tell—mm—can’t tell if you’re hard or not.”

His cheeks grow red and warm again; ducking his face into the crook of her neck, he tells her, between harsh breaths: “Take my word for it, then,” and she does, because Fenris never lies.

Fenris pulls back to undo the latches of his breastplate, and Hawke arches her back, pulling at the end of her robe. He stops her before she can bring it over her waist, fingers shaking as they tighten around her wrists.

“Wait,” he mutters, in a raspy tone that shoots down her body, hotly, “I—I’ve always—“

He doesn’t get further than that, mouth closing abruptly, but Hawke gets it, and drops the fabric, moving her left leg across the expanse of his breastplate instead. Fenris quivers, actually quivers, and takes it off faster than she ever thought possible. It falls onto the carpet with a thud, and then he presses himself into her, hands sliding up and down the length of her legs. His chest is firm and warm, and his thumb presses into the inside of her thigh. Hawke’s spine bends, the back of her head digging into the mattress.

“For how long?” she asks, however hard it is to get her tongue to cooperate.

He doesn’t answer right away, entranced by how her legs twitch when his fingers pad closer to her smalls. Then he swallows, hard, and, without looking at her, says: “The night we met, you were—you were wearing leggings.” They’d been dirt poor, then, and leather armor was cheap; she hadn’t had anything else to wear apart from Bethany’s old clothes, and even today she couldn’t bear the thought of putting them on. “I’ve never cared for your robes, since.”

“Really,” Hawke breathes, smirking, even though her heart is tight in a too-wide chest.

He kisses her again, hard enough that she knows her lips will be bruised in the morning, and wraps his arms around her hips, bringing her closer to the fold between stomach and hipbone. His cock is hot, even through the leather of his pants, and Hawke shivers. Fenris brings his mouth to a pulsing vein in her neck, his hands to her ankles, and, sitting back on his knees, rests her calves on his shoulders.

A man who went days without food, before she and Aveline and Varric forced him into the normalcy of daily meals – and she has never seen him this starved. He looks at her like she’s the warmest, most succulent dish he’s ever been served, and his hips surge into hers twice before he regains control over them. Her toes curl beside the end of his pointed ears, and she wants to close her thighs around his face and ride it, but doesn’t. However much he seems to want this, want _her_ , she can’t allow herself to forget about Danarius, and she’d rather die than press too much.

There will be time later – maybe. For now, she’ll let him get used to the touching, to the slide of her skin against his own.

He lets go of her legs, brushing the fabric of her robes up her stomach. Hawke arches her back, facilitating the disposal, and when her robes are nothing but a pile of blue folds on the floor, Fenris’ breath skips.

“Flatterer,” Hawke quips, her voice deep and rough, and has to bring a hand to her mouth when he leans over to bite the pliant flesh of her left breast. Over the heart, she notices, and her hips undulate against the hard press of his dick without previous order.

“Venhedis,” he hisses— _yes_ , she thinks, pride bursting out of her—fingers digging into her waist, so hard she feels the prickle of his blunt nails. _Yes,_ Hawke thinks, voracious, and her legs flex over his shoulders, bringing him down. “Hawke,” Fenris mutters, shaking, and her stomach goes cold with fear until his hands descend from the curve of her waist to the fullness of her hips. “Hawke,” he says again, so softly, “can I—would you mind if I—“

“Whatever you want,” Hawke offers, and Fenris’ stomach shudders, as he rubs against her thigh. His eyes close, then, the blood spreading across his cheeks, and he untangles herself from her. The lack of touch almost hurts her, but his hands only leave her hips to curl tremulous fingers around her smalls – fine fabric, embroidered, fit for a noble – and then she’s gloriously naked beneath his gaze.

His voice is tense as it speaks in Tevene, the muscles in his stomach rippling while his spine shivers. Hawke decides she wants to lick him there, but Fenris does it first, sliding his arms behind her knees and pressing his mouth—

“Fuck,” Hawke cries out, into her closed hand.

Fenris’ pretty mouth is warm and wet and his tongue licks flatly into her cunt.

Fenris’ pretty mouth, the one she stared at for years, the one she pictured biting at her ear and neck, not sucking at her clit, not eating her out like she’s his favorite flavor. Hawke was so, so stupid to never think about this. _Really_.

Fenris takes his time, despite how whitely his knuckles are inked where they press into her knees, despite the way he grinds into her mattress to relieve himself. His eyes are closed, and his dark eyebrows furrow in concentration; she unthinkingly grabs at his hair, directs him to where the heat is stronger. Hawke wants to see him look up at her, wants to see those green eyes emerge hot and dark from between her legs, but her throat is too tight for a single syllable to slip by.

She supposes it doesn’t matter. If he wanted to, he’d look up of his own volition – she’ll let him do as he likes.

Hawke looks past his shoulders, then, the muscle tightening when he moves closer to lick at her better. The dimples at the end of his back shadow over when his ass rises, and that’s it. That’s when Hawke comes, hard, her thighs trembling around his head, her fingers gripping at his soft hair, and her ankles digging into the flatness of his shoulder blades.

He keeps at it until she’s completely stupid, her eyes rolling back and her stomach quaking, and when he pulls back his chin markings are dripping. He wipes at them distractedly, with the back of his hand, and breathes hard. Hawke would almost feel ashamed, were the need to have him not so large, and were she not a pervert.

“Fuck,” she says, again, catching her breath. This time, the word seems like a confession, written in soft, perfumed paper. Hawke throws one arm over her face, feeling it heat under her elbow.

“Was that,” Fenris starts, hoarsely, and then clears his throat. “Was that adequate?”

She lifts herself on arms too weak to hold her weight without shaking.

“Was that—? You bloody idiot, of course it was,” Hawke says, all the things unsaid packed neatly inside the insult. Then she leans over and kisses him, running her hands through his hair. He tastes like her and she is lost, moaning hard into his mouth. Fenris is surprised, shoulders tensing and hands frozen at her waist, but Hawke barrels through it, settling in his lap and kissing the line of his jaw, the point of his pulse, biting at his neck.

“Hawke,” he huffs, grabbing at her ass and trying to stop her from moving. She wants him so much – this stupid, rude man who pushes her away with every breath he takes. She wants, so, so much. Hawke sucks, hard, until his Adam’s apple bobs and his eyes flutter closed, until her mouth leaves him bruised like she is. One hand grabs at her forearm, tight and unsteady. His eyes are still closed; his face is still flushed. “If you don’t stop what you’re doing, I won’t be—I shall not last.”

“’S fine,” Hawke assures him, and grinds down on his lap.

He curses vehemently in Tevene, throwing her off of him, and undoes the fastenings of his pants after two frantic, failed attempts. She curls one leg around his waist as she waits and his markings flash briefly, his head falling back with a gasping moan. _That_ surprises her, and she pulls back, worried, confused, and too aroused to breathe. Seconds pass until Fenris catches his breath again. His stomach is tightened, his shoulders are slumped, and the dark leather of his pants is stained.

“Oh,” Hawke says, mouth dry. She thinks, for an alarmed second, that she might actually die from the sight of Fenris coming untouched.

“Yes,” he spits bitterly, without looking at her. “Oh,” he echoes, and makes to stand from the bed.

“Don’t even think about it,” she says, half-laughing, half-nervous, and pulls him by the wrist. Fenris might be an exquisite swordsman, but he loses his balance like any other man kneeling on top of a mattress. Hawke takes his weight gladly, his leg between hers, his elbows caging her.

“What are you doing?” he asks stiffly, and though he still refuses to look at her, Hawke doesn’t care, just presses his hand into the apex of her thighs. Watches as his skin inks pink once more.

“Are you going to leave? Really?” Hawke whispers, lips tracing the shell of his ear. “A mattress is no wall,” she goes on, brushing a knee against his cock, no longer pulsing but once more half-hard. He presses into her touch, hips lowering, hands closing beside her ears. “But I’ve also never been fucked in this bed,” she finishes, and sucks at the tender skin of his neck. His heartbeat is louder than hers.

“Well?” she asks, after a beat, finally nervous.

“Festis bei umo canavarum,” he murmurs, relenting. Hawke moans into his ear now, when his fingers crook inside her, searching. It’s been years since she’s last had a man, and though his earlier ministrations definitely helped, she is not opposed at him putting his hands on her. _Definitely_ not opposed.

Fenris stares at her, now, watches the way her face contorts, watches her squirm because of what he’s doing.

She wonders if he likes what he sees, or if he feels regret about starting this, and then throws her head back, mouth open in silent supplication. _Oh,_ she thinks, when his other hand palms her stomach, his spine curving to let him bite at her skin, _oh, please, please,_ she is so close. His thumb pads at her clit, and Hawke clenches, knees closing, toes curling, and then her orgasm is stolen from her as he pulls his fingers away.

“What the hell, Fenris,” she says flatly, getting up on her elbows, stomach still quivering. He kisses her, then, almost punitively, sticky fingers grabbing at her chin. His eyes are wide when he parts—in shock? in realization?—glinting green and gold in the dim light, and Hawke forgets how to breathe. _I love you,_ she thinks, and he kisses her again. Distantly, she feels him struggling with his pants, and her hands move of their own volition, helping him undress.

They don’t get far. He pulls her hands away as soon as his pants hang mid-thigh, his breath hot against her neck. Fenris sinks into her, and Hawke realizes that Fenris isn’t fond of wearing underwear. _Andraste’s flaming tits_ , she thinks, sucking a breath through her teeth, _this man will be the bare-assed death of me_.

“You—“ he stammers, hands grasping at her thighs, palming down her legs. His cock is hot and firm again and Hawke pushes her hips into him, eyes lidded and mouth parted. “Hawke,” he breathes, and finally, _finally_ they fit together.

“Oh dear Maker,” Hawke huffs, against his chin, her insides rippling. He fucks into her once, hard and unthinking, fingers bruising at her hips. His breath is louder than hers and it satisfies her perversely.

“Say—say my name,” Fenris groans, ducking his face into her neck again, his teeth scraping at the skin. She almost hears a _please_ in there.

“Fenris,” she gasps, kissing at his ear. His hips slams into hers again, the fastenings of his pants digging into her thigh, and it is bloody fucking _glorious_. She writhes under him, legs tight around his waist, crossing behind his back. He pulls up with his arms, then, and stares at her with lidded eyes. Hawke closes hers, the heat spreading across her face, and he stops.

“Look at me,” he says, knees climbing across the mattress, his cock filling her more and better as a result; Hawke has to slap a hand across her mouth not to cry out. But she looks. Fenris goes taut when their eyes meet, hands digging into her waist first, then at the end of her back as he brings her even closer. “Good,” he adds, and she clenches down, coming again. Her eyes flutter closed as she rides the wave, but Fenris doesn’t let her drown, resuming the fast pace.

“Fenris,” Hawke mewls—oh, Maker take her, she’s actually mewling—and pulls at his hair to bring his mouth into hers. He complies easily, biting at her lower lip when they part. “Fenris,” she says again, her voice but a small hiccup when he pushes into her so hard they both slide up the mattress.

“Yes,” he replies, raspingly, hands tight around her ass.

“I want—I want you to—oh Maker—“ she tries, and has to slap a hand on her mouth again. Fenris is quick to wrap his fingers around her wrist and pull it off.

“What?” he questions, pinning her hand above her head. It is, at once, an order, a plea, and concern; beneath it lie layers of things Hawke is in no position to read into. She clenches, again, halfway into another orgasm, and Fenris stops like it’s easy, like every second he’s not moving isn’t the sweetest torture—“ _What?_ ” he demands once more, stomach tensing with the effort of refusal.

“Say my name,” Hawke whispers, and Fenris flushes harder than she’s ever seen him do before. Or at least she _thinks_ so, because in the next second he hides his face beside her ear, hips twitching into hers despite his attempt not to move.

“Marian,” he breathes, softer than the first spring breeze, and Hawke’s eyes roll back in her head despite the fact he’s still immobile. “Marian,” he says, and the first turn of his hips is tender, so tender she could cry.

“Oh, Maker, yes,” she moans, in his ear, thighs clamping down around his ribs.

That breaks the moment; he trembles in result, and the second swerve of his hips is harsh, as well as the following ones. Hawke takes them all in stride, arching her back to fuck him back, sliding her ankles into the dimples of his back to pull him deeper.

His control gone, it makes it easier for her to tell he’s close. Hawke is too, the familiar burn of pleasure inflaming her insides when Fenris pants in her ear. Between them, there is no space; just sweat and a tingling prickle, her nipples tight and sensitive against the planes of his chest, her heart full from the knowledge that it his weight pinning her down. Her free hand rakes at his back, while her other just grabs at her bedcovers – his fingers are still tight around her wrist and deny her most movements.

“Marian,” Fenris grits out, and she comes, her breath hiccupping for long seconds, her hand pulling at his hair to bring him up. The need to kiss him is unbearable and Fenris mercifully complies, licking at her jaw, then biting at her lower lip, and when he comes it’s with a hard slam of his hips and a throaty exhale, his hips trembling between her thighs, his stomach fluttering against her own; he pushes until he’s spent, twitching like he’s trying to bury himself inside her. Hawke hums appreciatively into his throat, sucking while she waits for him to come down, legs sliding in soothing lines around his torso.

“Wait,” she says, when his hand releases her wrist to help him rise, “stay.”

Fenris glances down at her like she’s lost half her mind, though the color of his face and the width of his pupils take away from the derision.

“I _very_ much like the way you pin me down,” she purrs, locking her ankles behind his back, and his hips rolls into her – entirely by accident, judging by how his eyes go wide before he closes them, a surprised groan in his throat. “It seems I'm not the only one,” Hawke adds lasciviously, clenching down for his benefit.

“You are depraved,” Fenris manages, through a tight jaw, but acquiesces nevertheless, leaning down on his elbows and resting his cheek on her shoulder. His breath is warm and quick, still, and it pulls at her heartstrings.

“I’m not,” Hawke lies shamelessly. “Just making sure you’re up for another round.”

“Did the thought of asking not occur to you?” he asks, but she can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Why, serah, I didn’t want to hurt your pride,” she quips, haughtily. “What if you only had two arrows in your quiver?”

“That is a horrible— _venhedis_ , woman,” he groans, when she tightens again. Inside her still, he is hardening once more, his abdominal muscles starting to throb.

“Oh! What’s this? It seems we’ve found a third one,” Hawke says, in mock-surprise, and Fenris huffs out a laugh. It is warm against her skin, and, for a second, she feels very sad, hearing him like this, having him like this. Even talking to him like this, without the arguments and the anger and the regret, it’s—

She wonders if it’ll happen again.

“Despite my lack of archery training, I am positive I can rise to the challenge,” Fenris says dryly, and Hawke pushes those thoughts out of her head. The time for them will come eventually—she might be an optimist but she is no fool—but now, he is here, and he is hers.

“Is that so?” Hawke says, grinning and pulling herself up with her elbows. He leans back on instinct, and she pushes him into a sitting position, breasts pressed into his chest. “Then let’s get those pants off and find out if you can keep hitting the target.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Isabela,” Fenris complains. Then Hawke shifts in his lap, bringing her mouth to his, and, for a while, there are no more protests.


End file.
